


The Wand Farmers

by isquinnabel



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Drabble Collection, Gen, Herbology, Male-Female Friendship, Plants, Post-War, Wandlore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-19
Updated: 2016-09-19
Packaged: 2018-08-16 00:44:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,036
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8080144
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isquinnabel/pseuds/isquinnabel
Summary: Life, hope, and a dead forest.
(An interconnected drabble set.)





	

**Author's Note:**

> Happy fandom giftbox, seal_nonnie!

  
  


* * *

  


“The care of the Earth is our most ancient and most worthy and, after all, our most pleasing responsibility. To cherish what remains of it, and to foster its renewal, is our only hope.” 

\--Wendell Berry

* * *

  
  


During the war, it was a hiding place.  
  
Its location had always been secret. Protective charms had been hiding the forest for years; otherwise, curious wandmakers wouldn’t have thought twice about sneaking inside for illicit study. Secrecy was paramount.  
  
But Voldemort rose, and priorities changed.  
  
The caretaker turned the forest into a sanctuary. He sought out muggle-borns and blood traitors who’d fled to the surrounding woods, and offered his protection. His small cottage grew crowded, and they dared to hope that they could survive. As long as the protective charms held strong, they’d be fine.  
  
They didn’t. And they weren’t.

  


*

  


Neville lies on the ground, staring into blue sky framed by blackened branches. They’re too far from the cottage to hear any activity; dead silence is broken only by Luna’s soft footsteps. They’re not allowed back until the bodies are removed. Neville isn’t sure if he’s insulted or relieved. He’s leaning towards relieved.  
  
(His stomach constricts. It’s occurred to him that it’s somebody’s job to notify all the families. Confirm what they already know.)  
  
When he sits up, Luna has her right ear pressed against a tree trunk.  
“What are you doing?”  
“Listening.”  
“For what?”  
She sighs. “I’m not sure.” 

  


*

  


Days pass before Neville and Luna are allowed inside. They pitch tents in the garden, and Luna goes for walks amongst burnt-out trees.  
  
She doesn’t know the exact details of what happened here – the Ministry won’t disclose anything yet – but she knows enough. Snatchers. Duels. A raging fire, enough to burn an entire forest of wand trees. Not one living thing remains on this property, and the weight of what used to be lingers heavily in the air.  
  
Life might be coaxed back into the forest, but it doesn’t feel like enough. It isn’t enough.  
  
(It has to be enough.) 

  


*

  


The caretaker’s library is half books, half handwritten notes. Detailed observations are scrawled in every margin, on parchment scraps of varying ages and the backs of photographs… nurturing magic in these trees is no simple task.  
  
“Phases of the moon,” reads Neville. “Quality of soil. Quidditch results. Why on earth would Quidditch results affect the health of the wood?”  
“Don’t the notes say?”  
He shrugs. “Something to do with the mood in the air.”  
“Hmm.” She twists her hair around her fingertips. “You should learn a musical instrument. We both should.”  
“Why?”  
“If mood is important, music can only help.” 

  


*

  


Neville is in the exact centre of a dead forest, palms flat against the dirt.  
  
It isn’t going to work. He’s never been good at things like this. He might’ve been good at standard herbology, but this is complex spellwork –– _wandless_ spellwork, the domain of wizards like Dumbledore. Neville is not the bumbling eleven-year-old he once was, but he’s no Dumbledore.  
  
However, the caretaker’s notes are clear: the forest prefers a direct touch. It makes sense, Neville supposes, that the trees don’t require wands. After all, they very nearly are wands.  
  
He inhales shakily, squeezing his eyes shut.  
  
“Arbor sanentur…”

  


*

  


Working in the forest each day is exhausting, which suits Luna just fine. Most nights, she falls asleep immediately – it’s as though the night passes in one blink. Perfect.  
  
(It’s been a year since Malfoy Manor. She hates the darkness.)  
  
In the deepest part of the forest, there’s a shift in the air. It’s so gradual, so subtle that it’s near impossible to detect. Luna feels it; it’s hard to describe, but it’s almost like a tingling sensation in her nail beds.  
  
“That’s just the dragon dung,” teases Neville. “Wash your hands.”  
She laughs, and flicks a twig at him. 

  


*

  


Luna finishes the memorial on a Saturday morning. Seventeen white rocks stack directly on top of one another, held steady with a half dozen charms.  
  
Neville chose the location: a sunny slope close to the tree line. High enough for a beautiful view of the forest, low enough to still feel like part of its world.  
  
Luna created the design: one rock for each of the fallen, etched with intricate patterns over the entire surface. No two alike.  
  
During the night, it almost appears to stand guard over the forest. It’s a ghostly sentinel, steadily keeping watch in the dark. 

  


*

  


Leaves are growing.  
  
The tiniest buds, little pinpricks of green, only visible to those specifically seeking them out. Neville doesn’t want to celebrate too soon – regenerated trees don’t guarantee regenerated magic. But he can’t help feeling terribly proud of what they’ve done.  
  
Luna insists she feels a pulse in some of the oaks, but Neville doesn’t know what to make of that. He’s inclined to believe that this is Luna being Luna, but he suspects she just has a better grasp of wandless magic than him.  
  
Still, he’s in good spirits. Luna’s piccolo wafts on the breeze, and he smiles. 

  


*

  


There are Trapikeets in this forest. Luna is sure of it.  
  
Trapikeets are shy creatures; they like stillness, tree roots, and songs played in minor keys. She and Neville have been catching movements in the corners of their eyes for weeks, and Luna is excited. She’s never seen a Trapikeet before!  
  
(Neville doesn’t believe Trapikeets exist, but that’s alright.)  
  
One morning, Luna nestles herself between two trees and waits. Patience is easy; the forest is beginning to feel like an old friend.  
  
When tiny claws dig into her shoulder, her heart leaps. But it’s not a Trapikeet.  
  
It’s a Bowtruckle. 

  


*

  


_Dearest Luna,_  
  
_Thank you for your letter. I am very grateful indeed to both yourself and Mr. Longbottom for the care you’ve shown the wand forest._  
  
_What you’re describing sounds very positive. And, as you said, a Bowtruckle sighting is a good sign. However, without viewing the forest myself, I cannot say with any certainty that the trees are regenerating to a standard suitable for wandmaking. I happily accept your invitation to visit next month, and I will use this time to thoroughly assess the state of the forest._  
  
_I look forward to seeing you again._  
  
_Warmest regards,_  
_Garrick Ollivander_

  


  



End file.
